


Lilac Wine

by AnAwesomeWave



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Conflict of Interests, F/M, Headcanon, Hurt/Comfort, Insomnia, Paris Mission, Resolved Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, gallya, post-tmfu
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-16
Updated: 2015-09-16
Packaged: 2018-04-21 03:44:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4813715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnAwesomeWave/pseuds/AnAwesomeWave
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gaby develops insomnia.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lilac Wine

**Author's Note:**

> After the missions in both Rome and Istanbul, Gaby struggles with her past, her politics and with her sleeping habits. Luckily, things have a way of working out...
> 
> *If I have made mistakes (spelling, grammar etc. or the historical content) please let me know (be nice!)*
> 
> I'm @illyasm on tumblr
> 
> Writing playlist/Fic soundtrack:  
> Cry to Me - Solomon Burke  
> Try A Little Tenderness - Otis Redding  
> Lilac Wine - Nina Simone  
> I Put A Spell On You - Nina Simone  
> Quelqu'Un M'a Dit - Carla Bruni

  It was insomnia, then, that almost killed her in the end.

  It was embarrassing. Gabriela Teller did not lose sleep, and especially not for lack of a decent reason. But it began during Istanbul; the nights after the day's mission would swallow her whole and leave her gazing at hotel ceilings, hearing the obnoxiously loud tick-tick-tick of the clock through each steady hour. The first hotel was in a somewhat remote area, but they moved on to a second one (the hotel staff had been growing a little too suspicious for Waverley's liking) that was situated closer to Istanbul's center, and Christ if she didn't hear anything but traffic and noise and voices in loud Turkish for three nights straight, while she lay, restless and bitter, the past stewing incessantly in her mind like a sick wheel of misfortune.  
  She'd been paired, once again, with Kuryakin for that mission - Waverley had pitched them as the dynamic duo, and didn't want to fix that which was not yet broken, so the pair of them were bunking together in a stuffy hotel room once more, as Katrine and Oleg Petrov, Russian tourists who just so happened to have a keen interest in the goings on of the Turkish government.  
  So each night she would look, irritated, at the bed parallel to her, occupied by the most well-rested man she'd ever laid eyes on. The noises outside, the heat, the mission: nothing seemed to quell   Illya's ability to sleep from the moment his head hit the pillow, and his slow, even breathing almost drove Gaby around the bend one too many times. If he'd been a snorer, she might have taken his own gun from his pocket and used it on him.

  
  Her lack of sleep did not go unnoticed. Her faux husband's eyes sometimes found the bags underneath hers. 'Gaby, are you...' Illya's awkward attempts at voicing his concern were beaten by   Napoleon's brash American-ness. 'You look like shit,' Solo said, smoothly, downing his coffee during breakfast. 'You sleeping okay?'  
  They were eating breakfast at the hotel during the fourth day of the mission, and by now Gaby's face was undeniably pallid. She poured herself a third coffee. 'Charming,' she addressed Solo. 'And yes, thank you.'  
  'Sure?' Solo probed. Next to him, Illya was looking attentively at her, his dark eyes furrowed.  
  'Yes,' Gaby said, breezily. 'I'm doing my job satisfactorily, am I not?' She quickly put her cup down; her hands were trembling.  
  'You are, but...' Solo made a be reasonable face. 'Your welfare is integral to this mission, as equally as mine and Peril's, if not more. So if there's anything you need - '  
  'I will be sure to let you know,' Gaby assured him airily. She wasn't sure why she was so adamant to keep this to herself: perhaps the aggressive competitiveness between her two counterparts was rubbing off on her; perhaps she couldn't stomach the thought of being seen as weak or incompetent. She was certain, however, that once she was back on home turf, with a resting period to gather her thoughts and sleep off her stresses, that she would be as good as new.

  It turned out, however, that home was not home any longer.  
  'Sorry to spring this on you, Miss Teller, though I'm sure it doesn't come as much of a surprise,' Waverley informed her at the end of their (hugely successful) mission in Istanbul. He was stood in the bedroom with Illya and herself whilst the pair of them packed to leave, and the sight of him here, in this seedy little hotel room, was somewhat comical. 'It's entirely impossible for you to be posted in East Berlin as you once were, as you obviously can't come and go as you please; additionally you might well be considered an enemy of the state for working for an organization such as UNCLE. Your possessions have been retrieved from your home and a place in West Berlin has been set up for you.' He watched her, warily. 'I hope that isn't too...delicate a situation for you.'  
  She nodded, swallowed; she had suspected as such, yet it was still a blow for her. She did have a friends, and a job she loved, and she would miss it.  
  'I'm sure they need car mechanics in West Germany, too,' Waverley said, brightly, and the sheer insensitivity of this chirpy remark caused even Illya to slowly turn his head away from his suitcase to stare at him. Quickly gathering the mood, Waverley made excuses and blustered out of the room. 'I shall see you both at the airport within the hour!' He called as he exited.  
  Gaby packed her remaining things slowly, conscious of Illya's looks towards her. She would not, of course, miss the Stasi regime, where each person was guilty until proven not so, and even then were still somehow found guilty; she was also excited at the prospect of West German cars, which, she'd heard, were much more modernised than the unreliable Soviet ones she was constantly tending to. When Illya asked her how she was feeling, she told him this much, and, to her surprise, he did not respond; it was not until later that she remembered that the very regime she was criticising was the one that he worked for.

  The place in West Berlin was downright lovely.  
  She could not, thank God, see the Wall from where her new apartment was situated, so she could kid herself that she was still in the East: that it had merely had a makeover so that the buildings were prettier, the atmosphere was lighter, and she did not have to worry about listening devices in the walls. Waverley's people had really decked the place out - stylish furniture, modern appliances, and a fridge full of delicious food. There was even a record player in her living room, which was how Gaby Teller discovered Western music for the first time. She frequented the local music store for records from Britain and America, and stood upon her balcony during the evening, watching the people below as the music drifted through upon the spring breeze.  
  One particular day in late April, she spotted a vinyl that made her heart flip. She bought it to the counter and paid before she could talk herself out of it, and walked around for the rest of the day with it in her bag like a shameful secret.  
  She did other things that day - she cleaned her apartment; she made dinner; she wrote a letter to her friends in the East that would never reach them. But dusk fell and she could wait no longer, and the butterflies revved up in her belly once more as she took out her brand-new copy of Solomon Burke's Cry to Me, placing the needle of the turntable upon the vinyl with reverence. Then she took a tonic water, with vodka (for him) out onto the balcony and listened to the song while she allowed herself to think about Illya Kuryakin.  
  She was afraid. Afraid of the feelings that she didn't want to feel. There had once been a boy, a boy she was only friends with at first. His name had been Brody, and they met when she was nineteen, lying on her back underneath his Moskvitch, berating him on the state of his brakes. Taken with her sparky nature, he had frequented the chop shop more often than necessary, talking about everything under the sun (except the government, but she could already tell in his eyes that he hated the regime as much as she did, so discussion was not necessary). Like the Russian, he had dwarfed her with his six feet and two inches - a shade shorter than Illya, she found herself noticing - but never once did she feel intimidated by him. He was dark-haired but pale-eyed, an indecisive green or blue. When he began showing up at her door with flowers, two months or so later, she had already fallen for him. She pictured the pair of them together, living peacefully, even producing short, fiery, blue-eyed children. He had asked her round his house to dinner and she had accepted, feeling nervous and in bits and entirely whole, all at once. She was sure, here, that this was what love was, or at least the strongest dose of infatuation.  
  And then Brody was taken by the Stasi, and Gaby never saw him again.  
  She was certain he'd done nothing wrong. His dislike of the government did not betray stupidity: after all, he was a mathematics teacher, the sharpest tool in the toolbox. His intellect was one of the things Gaby had admired about him. This therefore led her to the conclusion that he'd been charged by the state for the worst crime there was: existing this side of the border instead of the other. Perhaps he looked suspicious to a policeman. Perhaps a student ratted him out for having anti-government views. Whatever it was, he was gone for good, and a six foot tall hole in Gaby's heart had been left to wither and wilt. The one man of whom she gave a damn about was in a cell, or a camp, or worse. She wouldn't let herself leave the house until she'd done mourning and crying; she knew that, if left on the streets to her own devices, she would scream or smack the nearest officer she saw. Which, with the millions of secret police surrounding her, was an unwise move.  
  So of course she did not kiss Illya. Of course she told him that Alexander Vinciguerra, the Nazi, the very opposite of all that he stood for, was attractive. The desire and hatred for him was conflicting her to the point where professional civility was all that she could manage. So, when Waverley called her the following month to inform her that a new mission was on the cards - this time in Paris - she held her breath and hoped that her fictitious coupling was with Solo, instead of Illya.

  The flight over on the private jet had soothed her nerves somewhat: she was acting out all possible scenarios in her head, and her reactions to them. She may well be put with Illya again; she could be placed with Napoleon. She would not look too joyous to be with the latter, or sorrowful to be with the former. She would remain the same unruffled partner she had been so far, and she would sleep like a baby each night, as she had been in her new place, and all would be well. She would focus on the mission and be the good wife, the femme fatale, the angel, whichever role she had to play. Simple.

  'Would you mind telling me what it is I've done wrong?'  
  Gaby's plane had landed at 6pm, and she had headed for the briefing that Waverley had scheduled at the hotel for 7pm, with her two usual colleagues. She'd arrived at the five-star clad in a dress leftover from the Rome mission (it was not, not to impress Illya - the orange nicely complimented her dark hair, that was all) and a floppy hat (ditto) with her suitcase. Already in the lobby was Napoleon Solo (strangely not in a his usual suit, but more casual attire of a shirt and drainpipe trousers; presumably he was supposed to be a tourist, or something) who greeted her with his usual charm, accompanied with a kiss on the hand. 'There, now, there's the Gaby Teller I recognise! Evidently some R and R was all you needed. Welcome back to the trio, honey.' He seemed genuinely pleased for her, and she felt a rush of affection for this boneheaded, idiotic American who played such an underrated role in their unstoppable threesome.  
  She turned to Illya. He, too, was in more informal wear: a light grey sweater, black trousers, and the flat cap in its usual place. He greeted her with no more than a smile and a nod, and it was loath of her to notice his appraising look at her outfit, and how that made her feel. 'Gaby,' he said, though it always sounded more like Gebby, a sound that settled somewhere between her thighs and her heart. 'Illya,' she replied, courteously, not quite looking at him. She saw him open his mouth and close it again, and didn't allow herself to speculate on what it was he'd silenced himself about.

  
  Shortly, Waverley arrived to brief them.  
  'All checked in? Let's go up to one of the rooms; we can't just loiter in the lobby here. Rooms 156 and 157, correct?'  
  They took the elevator. What with all the luggage, and two of the group being roughly the breadth of the average war tank, Gaby was somehow left squished between Illya and Napoleon, and she supposed there were worse places to be (Napoleon smelled like airplane liquor and hair mousse, which was not unpleasant; Illya like coffee and a strange but intoxicating aftershave that she wanted to lick off him). Stepping out the elevator, Waverley headed for the first hotel room: number 156. The double room. Gaby's breath was held unintentionally.  
Napoleon, who was holding the keys, opened the door with an 'after you,' directed at everyone. Each person filed inside with their luggage; Gaby's heart was pounding.  
  'So, ladies and gents,' Waverley began. 'Paris. City of love. Well, actually, as far as you're concerned, the city of corruption. There have been reports of inner-circle scandals within the law enforcement for some time now, and, as a favour to our dear allies - bar Mr. Kuryakin, perhaps,' he added, sheepishly, with a look at Illya, ' - we will be investigating the chief of police, Mr. Mattieu Dufort.'   Waverley handed each of them a photograph. Dufort was paunchy, forty-something, with thinning hair and a look of abject smugness, dressed in his uniform.  
  'Initially, Mr. Solo will be acting as a potential briber: offering money in order to gain influence within the force, and for Dufort to conveniently fail to notice a huge drug deal that he will be partaking in underneath his nose at the party he will be throwing, two days later, at his mansion on the outskirts of the city.' Waverley handed them a second photo of a beautiful, white-painted house.  
  'Even for the chief, policemen do not usually have houses like this,' Illya mumbled. 'It's surprising what he's gotten away with.'  
  'Indeed,' said Waverley. 'You three have been recruited here at the French government's personal request; they were impressed with your success in Rome. Now, as for you two,' he looked at Gaby and Illya, and she knew what was coming, 'you will be playing husband and wife - Germans, Hans and Monique Bayer, rich socialites from West Berlin on their annual trip to the French capital. Your job, Gaby, will be if Dufort fails to take Napoleon's bribe: Dufort loves the taken ones, our sources tell us. With a ring on your finger and a flirty manner, he'll only have eyes for you. Drug the drink, get him to the bedroom, and find what you can, along with Illya. We need cold, hard evidence for this.' Gaby nodded, and as Waverley gave them their profile sheets and all the details, her eyes drifted around the room. It was sleek, floral, and beautiful, and the bed, innocently nestled in the corner, was king-sized. Not two separate singles, but a fully-fledged double bed. Gaby couldn't look away from it.  
  'That's all, folks,' he told them. 'I've been told the French will pay handsomely for this, so let's make it a clean, three-day affair, if possible.' With a farewell, he left.  
  Gaby sat down on the straight-backed armchair next to her. She could feel the insomnia creeping back upon her already.  
  'Well, looks like the trio's back for a third run!' Napoleon said, cheerfully. Gaby smiled up at him, albeit strained: his good mood was always infectious. 'I'll go unpack, and then we could explore the city for the rest of the night; go have a couple drinks somewhere.' This was Napoleonese for Find a Woman In a Bar to Have Sex With. 'Sounds good,' Gaby said, exasperated but enthused. Illya wasn't in her eyeline, but he might have nodded.  
  'I'll be back in thirty,' Solo said, and took his luggage to his room, shutting the door with a sharp click.

 

  The silence that he left behind was deafening. Gaby eventually turned around to her partner, ignoring the butterflies in her belly that had returned. 'So, long time no -'  
  'Would you mind telling me what it is I have done wrong?' Illya said abruptly, cutting her off.  
  She sat, opened-mouthed, scrambling for excuses. 'It - I - '  
  'Don't play dumb,' he said, and there was almost a snarl to the words, which he quickly curbed. 'It's in your face. Disappointment. Dread. I see it. Is it awkward, because of Rome? I can assure you, this is no picnic for me either. I am sorry if my advances were...unwanted.' He couldn't keep the hurt out of his voice, and Gaby's heart dropped at the thought of him feeling guilty, or unwanted.  
  She stood up, quickly, still comically short compared to him. 'God, no, Illya! It's complicated. I don't know if I can be with you, that way,' she cringed at the corniness of it. 'It was not unwanted, not a bit.' She made the mistake of saying this whilst looking at him straight in the face, and the softness of his eyes when he heard it made her want to tackle him to the ground once again and kiss him like she could've done.  
  'What is complicated, Gebby?' He asked her, softly, advancing a little.  
  'I...' She might as well say it. They were, consistently, husband and wife together, perhaps more so than many actual married couples. 'I disagree with all that you stand for,' she admitted, looking away. 'The KGB. The Soviets. They made my living in the East hellish, Illya. Living in West Berlin is just so much better, I can't help it. And -' Tell him about Brody? Tell him about Brody. No, don't tell him about Brody! Oh, you coward, just tell him! 'A - friend of mine was taken by the Stasi. I never saw him again.' Anger riled up inside her this time, mixing with the wanting and the nerves and overall just making her feel like punching him. Her fists even curled, and he noticed, with a small smile. 'You think I really liked that Nazi? You think that, under any other circumstances, I'd take him over you?' Her use of the word take made her blush.  
  Illya stood for a moment, absorbing this. He went and sat on the bed, but she did not join him, for fear of what might happen if she did.  
It was raining outside. The sound pattered and spluttered against the window sill, and the skyline of Paris was smothered in dusk as the sun lowered below the horizon. The sky was a rich, dark grey, and the heavy rainfall made Gaby feel cosy at their sweet little room. For a moment, she allowed herself to feel lucky, and happy. Then she turned to Illya, looking introspective, and her nerves caught her all over again.  
  'You know,' he said, slowly, 'I work for them because I have to.'  
  Gaby said nothing, but sat down in the armchair.  
  'Many times, I have wanted to quit,' Illya said. 'But I cannot. I know too much. Wherever I go, I am a dead man. The KGB have spies, legal and illegal, all over the globe. Within the hour I would be joining your friend.' He said this sadly, and the feeling in his voice, for a friend of hers he never knew, made a lump rise in her throat. 'I did fantasise...when you moved to the West, about living there, alongside you, joining you...it would have been lovely. But to be an enemy of the KGB is to be an enemy of one of the biggest organisations in the world. It would be suicide. And sometimes, I - ' He swallowed. 'Hate them. Too. Communism is founded in an ideal, but ideals never turn out as they are supposed to: shrouded in secrecy, fear, hatred. It is painful, the stories I have heard, the missions for them I have tended to. Luckily, I am mostly based internationally, but at home...' He shook his head. Looked out at the rain. 'Terror, for millions. Pure and simple.  
  So, hate me. Hate it. I do not blame you. But for it to come between two people like this...' He looked at her, then, really looked at her, his eyes hooded and dark with a feeling she knew all too well, a feeling that resided in her, too - 'I can never forgive it for that.'  
  A knock at the door made them both jump. 'You ready?' Napoleon called through the door.

*

 

  Illya wasn't blind. Though he, too, felt the thrill of the Parisian night settling into his veins, he knew exactly what was happening with Gaby. Like in Rome - maybe for entertainment, but most likely nerves - she was getting intentionally drunk out of her wits.  
  They were in a bar, a slick, low-lit place with plush, low couches, which they all sank into and ordered far too many cocktails far too quickly. The place was downright dark, which, he supposed, was supposed to give the place a stylish or mysterious ambiance, but all it made him think of was how easy is was to stare outright at her without being noticed. Though his hat was, of course, off, he knew that in the dim light he would not be seen looking more fixedly at her dress - one of those he'd chosen for her in Rome, he saw with satisfaction - at her hair, her kohl-lined eyes. Solo, who easily had the potential to become a rowdy or surly drunk, merely became much more charming, yet much less slick: like himself at a half-speed. He was presently slumped halfway down the couch, glass in hand, toasting it to something that he wouldn't stop rabbiting on about.  
  It was then that Illya noticed the direction of Gaby's gaze...at some point, it had transitioned from half-amusedly at Napoleon to a low-lidded look towards him. He felt himself flushing, growing hot all over, as Solo obliviously finished his toast and drank merrily. She was still looking at him.  
  'What do you think, little chop-shop? Solo's speech was moving, no-?' But Napoleon was now dozing where he was, his eyes closed and his cocktail glass at a dangerous angle in his hand. Illya placed it on the table hastily and cleared his throat.  
  'I've had far too much to drink.' Gaby's voice was husky. 'Again.'  
  'Well,' Illya said fairly, looking at his own vodka-spliced concoction. 'I will not stop you unless you put on sunglasses and start dancing.'  
  'And I won't stop you - ' She leaned forward and poked him in the chest - she was seated next to Solo, with Illya on the couch opposite - 'until you are.' She downed her daiquiri in one and joined him on the opposite couch, nestling deeply into the velvet.  
  'Careful,' Illya murmured. 'I may not be the kind of drunk he is.' He looked pointedly at Solo, who was somehow managing to still look dashing whilst simultaneously passed out. 'Who's to say I go merry like him?'  
  Illya remembers his father, drunk. Blind, screaming rage directed towards everyone and everything. Four hour-long shouting matches with his mother in the kitchen, the pair of them turning red raw with fury while Illya was holed up in his room, waiting and waiting for quiet.  
  Gaby was watching him. He noticed his fingers, tapping away. 'How do you go?' She asked, her flirtations temporarily gone, sincerity and concern replacing it.  
  Illya smiled to himself. A small smile. 'I do not know.' He confessed. 'I have never gotten drunk enough to find out.'

 

  An hour later, and he was about to. They'd ordered another drink each for themselves, and spent the time talking lowly to one another, her head almost - but not quite - leaning against his shoulder. They spoke of Napoleon and their dual undying affection for him; of the missions they'd completed so far; of fashion, the varying fashions of their respective countries and cultures, the best and worst ones. Illya did not, as he was privately worried he might, become loud, aggressive, or obnoxious, as the martini was absorbed into his blood, but instead became merely more relaxed, and not much else. He saw Gaby, too, through a more sentimental light, a light he rarely allowed himself to shine: she was, here and now, the most gorgeous fucking person in the entire world. And she was choosing to spend her time in a bar with him, him, the lowly Russian of dubious ethics, whose line of work she disagreed with entirely. She was so good, so unflappably strong and moral and hardy and eccentric that, when a slip of her hair fell down onto her face when she took a sip of her drink, it was nothing to him to tuck it back behind her ear, and he let his hand linger on her face for a little too long. With her own hand, she covered his and held it to her face, cupping it, letting him touch her. He felt the want pouring off her and his blood sang with it, his heart quickening as his body ached to touch her more.  
  He took the hand from her face and trailed it down to her waist, breathtakingly slowly, and he could tell she was remembering. Rome. So many unsolved things.  
  He held her there for a moment and she, finally, laid her head upon his shoulder, one hand languorously finding his neck, his hair.  
  'Maybe we should keep it clean in here,' Illya said, accent and drink making his voice rumble, not giving away how amazing it felt when anyone played with his hair. 'A double bed is waiting for us in room 156...'  
  'Maybe,' she purred. 'But it's Paris, honey. They've probably seen it all.' Her hand was on his thigh now, tantalizingly close to his crotch, and suddenly his skinny trousers were much too tight. His breath was held and he knew her nerve, that she would go ahead with it if he didn't do something.  
  'Come on,' he said. 'Let's get him tucked in first.' He nodded to Solo, who was now so unconsciously slumped that the majority of his body was upon the carpeted floor.  
  'Stalled again,' Gaby whispered, running a thumb over his bottom lip. 'I'm beginning to think you don't want me, Illya.'  
  Illya let out an outraged growl that took even him by surprise, and quickly they were hitching Napoleon up between the both of them, dragging him out onto the brisk streets of Paris to flag down a cab. The night was buzzing with people, and, somewhere to the right of them, the Eiffel Tower glowed amongst the rest of the city lights around them. Gaby's heart was thrumming - she kept snatching glances as Illya as he attempted to flag cabs - with the excitement of the French capital, the excitement of what was to come. She wished she could bottle this memory, keep it, save it for cold and lonely nights, when she was in need of memories of her own infinite excitement.  
Solo was in no sign of waking, and, though Illya was bearing most of the brunt, the weight was beginning to pain Gaby, so she almost cried with relief when a taxi approached them. Illya told the driver the hotel's name, and the two of them bundled Solo into the back seat, with Gaby taking the second back seat and Illya taking the passenger's side.  
  The cabbie was amiable, and though he spoke neither German nor Russian, he did speak English. 'These two - they are a couple? A relationship?' He asked Illya as he sped them through the night, indicating Solo and Gaby. In the confines of the back seat, Gaby smirked at Illya's displeasure at the question.  
  'No,' he said lowly to the driver. 'Or, if they are -' He turned to glance at Gaby. 'I am about to become an immoral man.'

 

  Solo's keys took some finding, but after rummaging through his breastpocket and finally locating it, they were able to finally shrug him off them and onto his plush, floral bed in room 157. 'I hope he knows a good hangover cure,' Illya chuckled, and then they were gone, slipping out and next door to their own room for the night.  
  Gaby noticed Illya's hands as he fumbled with the door key. 'You're shaking,' she quoted at him, half-teasingly.  
  He swung the door open, looking at her dead in the eye. 'That's because I'm scared,' he deadpanned. A moment later and he let out a chuckle, and she hit him on the arm.  
  'That wasn't funny!' She scolded as they entered the room. 'For all I know you really could have been sc-' He was kissing her before she could finish the sentence, scooping her close to him by the waist, gentle and yet strong, stooping to get low enough to kiss her, the urgency of it making Gaby's head spin.  
  'Done stalling,' he murmured against her mouth, and she took the reigns, reciprocating enthusiastically, their mouths and tongues and bodies meshing together like they couldn't get close enough if they tried. She wanted the lines between them to blur altogether, for them to become indistinguishable from each other. She now had her chance to inhale his scent, running her nose along his stubbled neck with her hands in hair, just as his were finding her ass to bring her even closer. She gasped at the contact, the boldness she hadn't anticipated. In retaliation, she slipped a hand lightly over his crotch, feeling him tense in response, his breath slowing with desire. 'Gebby.'  
  'Yes?' She replied innocently, her own voice cracking slightly as she grinded against him, feeling him harden because of it. It thrilled her. Looking up, his eyes were full of playful warning.  
  'Now's the time to put me over your knee,' she whispered, and he smirked. He brought her into a kiss again, deep and tantalizing, and her hands trailed over his chest and below his belt, thumbing his hipbones.  
  'God,' he hissed, grabbing her by the wrists, his eyes fire. 'You will kill me.'  
  'I want you,' she breathed, pleading in her voice. The veins on his arms were raised, and she brought one to her mouth, kissing it gently. 'Don't be angry.'  
  'You still want?' He asked, evidently remembering their earlier conversation in this room.  
  She nodded, her big eyes earnest, though Illya could see a hint of pain in them, still. It was clear that the sexual tension, the friction between them, their mutual appreciation for one another, was causing her to choose him instead of her politics, her morals. It pained him, yet also sent his blood fizzing.  
  He unzipped her dress from the back, sliding his hands down softly, putting his mouth on her shoulder for a moment, and then she undressed him - boldly, in her underwear, like she'd done this a thousand times. 'You look really fucking good in black,' she breathed, unbuttoning his obsidian shirt as he slipped off his trousers.  
  'You look really fucking good when I tell you what to wear,' he quipped lowly, and Gaby hit him playfully on the chest. He picked her up in one fell swoop - like a normal person might pick up a mildly heavy backpack - and placed her on the bed, where she dragged him down with her, her arms around his neck, kissing him fully, like she couldn't get enough.  
  Tentatively, as she lay beneath him, he slipped a hand between her legs, feeling her gasp in his mouth as he did so. Illya almost lost his mind when he found how soaked she was, taking a second to gather himself before sliding her underwear down from her hips and sliding two fingers inside her. She rolled her hips underneath him as he worked into her, seemingly as blissful as he was feeling.   One hand of hers was on his neck, the other in his hair. 'God, yes.' She was pulsating under his large hand; frantic, greedy. He was thumbing her clit and she clung onto him harder, hips reaching for purchase. He sucked eagerly at the delicate place between her neck and shoulder, meaning to bruise. 'Harder.' He didn't know if she meant the love bite or the fingers inside her, so he did both.  
  'Fuck, Illya, I -' She came, then, in a single, strong wave, a low, erotic moan emitting from her that went straight to Illya's cock. It wasn't until then that they both realised how close Illya was himself - he was hard as a rock, as tightly wound as a clock. Gaby lay, panting, her bra still on - she unhooked it and threw it to the other side of the room - and pushed Illya back onto the bed this time. 'It's your turn, mister.'  
  He gazed up at her in appraisal and doubt. 'You are sure, Gebby?'  
  'Yes.' She paused for a second. She looked wonderfully undone - windswept hair, swollen lips. Illya grew desperate. 'But you should know I've never done this before.'  
Illya's eyes widened. 'You - you are a - ?'  
'  No,' she said quickly, running a hand down his chest. His lovely, impressive chest. 'Just once, with someone. But that was a long while ago. And...he was on top.'  
  She straddled him, settling onto him, and Illya thought he might die. He held her waist. 'I will help,' he said, thickly, unable to hide, now, how far gone he was, that he was a hair's breadth away from wrecking her totally, pinning her down himself as easily as one might hold a toy, and doing things to her that would leave her immobile for days.  
  Gaby took the hint, and began slowly, gathering rhythm. Illya felt drunk on this, this night, on her; he himself was not unexperienced, yet was not on the level of, say, Napoleon. For her to trust him this way took his breath away far more than the feel and sight of her, now, lithe and tanned and fucking him reverently, her tits bouncing with the pace of it. He gripped her ass as she grinded onto him, feeling his eyes rolling back into his head with pleasure as she clenched tightly around him. He respected her, saw her, even - though he would not tell her yet - loved her, yet right now he only cared about the way her hips felt against his as she pounded into him, hot with the effort. With one last bite from her on his bottom lip, he came with a single utterance of a Russian curse word, filling her to the full capacity, his pupils blown wide with the pleasure underneath his sooty lashes. His abdomen convulsed as he came in throbs, hard and intense inside her, the feeling incomparable to any other experience, sexual or otherwise.  
  Gaby remained there for a moment, flattening herself against him to lie on top of him, holding him. Now he, too, was spent-looking, and looked all the more beautiful for it. His hair was mussed, his cheeks flushed. 'It's nice to see you lose control for once,' she purred, sliding off him to rest beside him.  
  He looked over at her, amused. 'Believe me, Gebby...my control is hard to keep below the surface at the best of times.' He kissed her forehead and she sighed.  
  'Dare I ask what this makes us?' She whispered, pulling the covers over herself to keep warm.  
  Illya shrugged. He neither knew nor, right then, cared. Whatever she suggested, he knew that he'd go along with it.

 

  Gaby woke mid-morning, a lazy lie-in compared to what she was used to. She felt light, well-rested. The clock beside her read 10:32 a.m. and sunshine was spilling into the Parisian bedroom, dust particles dancing in the split of light. Next door, Napoleon would be readying himself for his attempted bribery of the chief of police. She and Illya would not be on standby - Waverley had decided that, since they were undercover as an innocent, married couple, the risk of being found as backup for Solo was too great a risk, so some of Waverley's backup team would be around in case the deal got a little shady. That meant that the pair of them largely had the day to themselves, to do...well, whatever they chose.  
  Her heart flipped when she turned over to see her partner still asleep, lying on his front with his lean, hard back mostly exposed from the sheets. She waited for the feeling to subside, but it didn't: the tickly, sweet sensation of her hammering heart remained as she watched his body rise and fall with his breath. She momentarily worried what that meant, before sliding out of bed to go and shower.  
  Under the hot water, she felt bold enough, fiery enough, to sing, which she rarely did.  
' _When your baby leaves you all alone / And nobody calls you on the phone / Don't ya feel like crying._..'

  When she stepped out of the shower, she was greeted by an awake Illya, who was perched on one shoulder, smiling. 'You are sleeping now?' he asked.  
  Gaby nodded, telling him how her new home and life over the Wall had given her a more peaceful mindset, and that she'd needed the rest after two such taxing missions. 'And I, um, had a new method to getting to sleep,' she said coyly, slipping on her underwear. Illya waited, his face boyishly smug, waiting for her to continue.  
  Gaby brushed her wet hair, slowly, drying it with the towel. 'It's no great secret that pleasuring oneself often leads to a deep and satisfying sleep,' she said silkily. 'I had a few...preferences as to what I'd think about whilst I was doing it...'  
  Illya groaned, lying back on the bed. 'Gebby.'  
  She approached him languorously, clearly enjoying this. She drew a hand through his dark blond hair, and he grabbed her wrist. 'You,' she whispered. 'Me. In every conceivable way. Sometimes it would be Napoleon listening through a tracker like we did to him...'  
  He threw an arm over his face, flushing. 'You can not say this to me -'  
'...wanting to join us...We'd be against the wall, on the table, you name it, honey,' Gaby chuckled at Illya's scarlet face. 'We did it. Well, in my head.'  
  Illya pulled her down on top of him. 'Would you like me to vow to fulfill your dreams?' He drawled, his lips against her ear.  
  'I'd like that,' she whispered, heart continuing to flutter. Perhaps this would be her, now: permanently fizzing, sparking, like a live wire. 'On one condition.'  
  Illya's mouth quirked. 'Da?'  
  Gaby looked at him, square in the face. 'One day, you're going to dance with me for real. With _effort_ ,' she emphasized, grinning at his abashed face.  
  He kissed her nose. 'Deal.'

_-Fin-_


End file.
